


Food & Sundries

by herrenjaller



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Food, Gen, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herrenjaller/pseuds/herrenjaller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the tastes and tendencies of the inner circle. Gratuitous food porn enclosed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Food & Sundries

**Author's Note:**

> Brought over from Valhethella @ Tumblr

**Blackwall**

> Bear meats for Blackwall. It’s a rough won, acquired taste to enjoy gamey meats, but he doesn’t have them plain. They are salted, liberally rolled in fresh cracked pepper. Had with the sloppiest, wateriest ale, alongside stewed felendaris root and a garnish of sweet-smelling arbor blessing. Nobody will tell you, but there are times he procures a small round of cheese, marbled by blue mold and a thin, waxy rind that he slices in slivers to spread across the rare-cooked meat. The grease and the fat make for the best sauce, sopped up with sourdoughs long gone stale. 

**Cassandra Pentaghast**

> Nevarrans are a people of unsurprisingly heavy taste, but Cassandra treats herself to light and subtle dishes with notes of flavor. The chefs in Nevarra cook for the dead, not the living, it’s clear, and so dishes are single-sided, overdone, underpaid in attention. But in Val Royeux there are patisseries, windows lined by macarons topped in candied berries, towers made from sugar flowers, dishes of gelatins pale, pink, and fitted with beautiful blooms at their center. Rosewater cubes and gel delights cut with dates. Cassandra hides them away in enchanted boxes, keeps them chilled and free from their own sweating stickiness. 

**Cole**

> Lots of turnip dishes. Multitudes of dishes made only by mothers, who only grandmothers know the recipes to. The gag of a chocolate coated, white ribbon drizzled onion is a favorite. Cole eats the whole of a plate, garnish included despite how the greens taste like nothing, and the sauce tastes like everything. If a choice were to be made, the plain weight of a sugared scone is preferred, enjoyed in quiet and nibbled on sparingly. 

**Dorian Pavus**

> Dorian likes rich foods, savory foods, and smooth ones at that. Silky sorts of stews, he adores. Duck with sweet sauces or tender pieces of elk braised and lightly charred. He has a special love of fish eggs, a rare, rare indulgence because he can only bare the salt tingle with good enough wine. Sweets, he gathers in small quantities : Candied dates ; Chocolate coated orange peels ; Pears poached in spring cinnamon sauces ; Parfaits beside berry compotes, and a secret love for sticky, tangy mochis. Sweets must be lighter, though, to balance against the heaviest, richest foods. Little dustings of powdered sugar across a vanilla bean soufflé, had, at times, with a cup of coffee. With steamed milk, for celebration, a rich but tiny chocolate cake, topped in ganache and decorated by raspberries, spilling open with molten chocolate around a chilled spoon. 

**Iron Bull**

> Hot, warm, steaming foods. Casseroles in cast iron dutch ovens; Braided pretzel doughs, had soft or hard. Fruit. Fresh fruit. Slices of banana skewered, sprinkled in sugar, and cradled over the fire. But branzino, trout, snapper - fish, fish cooked in bear fat, battered with crumbs and sweet mint, and fried dark. Cold foods sour the appetite, even in barren plains such as the hissing wastes. 

**Sera**

> Cold cornbread, frosty from snow. Goat’s milk, had in a stein and spiked with a teaspoon of swill cognac. A spoil in a slice of poor man’s cake, the raisins picked out and tossed to those squawky crows. Burnt toast, smothered in blueberry jam. And inquisition cookies, still struggling their way toward an actual taste. 

**Solas**

> Solas does not, contrary to popular belief, subsist on a diet of greens and pummeled vinaigrettes. There is food in the fade, but it does not nourish. It tickles the tongue, like the wisp of a memory, as if smell and sight alone conjure something, stir something where your body sleeps. Solas has tasted the devil’s cut from dwarven ales. He’s sipped at the honeyed syrup that rashvine, handled just so, will pour out into a pot. The contents of cookfire pans, and the braised meat of a phoenix both melt like a pat of butter on his tongue. Something as plain as a lilted flop of spinach does very little after that. 

**Varric Tethras**  

> Dwarven food is a bit too savory, a bit too salty, and the water a little too murky of mineral. Ale is nice, a good winter wine is better. Kirkwall is generous in oddball delicacies. Blondie wasn’t a fan of the cat kebabs in lowtown, even though they were delicious. All minced garlic and soft, steamed carrots. They always whisked them through a sauce of mayonnaise, buttercream, and ferment. And on muggy mornings in the market : Egg yolk, runny, turned over in hot noodles ; Fat, fried dumplings, filled with cubed ramps and bok choy ; Best lunch the city had to offer by far, with small cups of sauce to dip, and vinegar to drink. 

**Vivienne de Fer**

> Orlesian plums are a common fruit, the lowest hanging, truly. They are quick to bruise, turn over-sweet, and their skin tends to shrivel and crawl away from their own pulp. Vivienne adores them. Plum jams on toast. Plums reduced to bitter compotes and spooned over seared fish. She takes her sweet tea with a slice of dried fruit. When the cheap and delicate spoil is not in supply, peaches play a beautiful substitute. Here and there, she and The Iron Bull collaborate, mixing the peaches or plums with banana slices, turning them over in gooey oats. He eats what she does not, which is to say, nearly all of it.

**Cullen Rutherford**

> A child raised on gruel and little more than washy wheat, that’s Cullen. But Mia, oh she made something magical. She’d spent a summer away, parading in softer fields than Honnleath offered. She had came back with baskets of groceries on both her arms. In their tiny home, they watched as she made a soft dough in her fingers, as she spun and smoothed it out into long, roping cords. Branson stole pieces off the ends and shoved them into his cheeks. Mia patted the rolls of dough with cinnamon, with a caramel sugar, and with cubes of sweet butter. She sliced them with Cullen’s knife, the one the knight-captain had tucked into his hands. Branson played at helping her roll them up, all snug, but snuck more bits of the sugared dough, and got them shooed from the house for it. Rosalie had whined and whimpered the whole time, kicking at their ankles, but some time later, when they came peeping over the window wall, the pinwheel buns sat steaming. Mia had packed them with hats of pecans and drizzled them in butter. Food like magic, still soft and sticky on his teeth then.

**Josephine Montilyet**

> Her mother used to make her a long grain rice, tossed together with tomatoes, peppers, spice like turmeric and mustard, coriander when it was packeted in the markets. Poppa would burn chicken for her on hot, slatted stones till it was a blackened patty, and sweeten it with limes and the pucker of vinegar. Leliana showed her the magic of a grilled slice of pineapple, dripping wet with sugar. That slipped through her like ambrosia, and always curled her belly up in warmth.

**Leliana**

> All she’s eaten, she remembers the faces with it- the spindling lies with it. Candy floss and the affair of a queen with her adopted brother. Stuffed artichokes and a magister killing his stableboy, his bedroom plaything. She shared elfroot tea cakes with Josie, and chaste kisses too far from the cheeks and too close to the lips between. Many divine sisters enjoyed sesame sticks from a tin with her, and told her of the prettiest templars. She sang songs to the warden, a rabbit, flesh peeling from its bones, spinning on the spit between them, and the foam of Oghren’s ale splashing in her hair. 


End file.
